


Like breathing was easy

by Valhalla



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valhalla/pseuds/Valhalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-9x24. Jackson broods. April monologues. Maybe there's room for a happy ending somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like breathing was easy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Definitely not mine.
> 
> A/N: Long-time Grey's fan, first-time fic-writer (for this fandom, at least). Title from Angels by The xx.

In the end, he hadn't said a damn word.

She'd asked him for a reason – begged him for something,  _anything_  to keep her from getting married – and it'd just been silence. Jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, a thousand  _million_  reasons crowding into his thoughts and rising in his throat, such an overwhelming press of memories and feelings, but he'd tried to speak and instead it'd just been a weary sigh, an exhale.

_April_ , he'd whispered, nothing left in him but to say her name and watch her expression crumble under the weight of her expectations. And o _h_ , she'd murmured back, faltering, hand straying to her mouth again like she was trying to hold the breath in, to keep herself steady.  _I'm so sorry, Jackson, I didn't mean to – I thought, I thought that maybe, that you felt_  –

– the same? He did, is the worst part, he  _does_ , but he'd watched her stumble from his bedside anyway. Watched her scrub away fresh tears with quick, angry fingers ( _I'm so sorry_ , she'd tossed back towards him a final time, horror and embarrassment and pain clear across her face, as young and soft as he's ever seen her), and throw open the curtains before disappearing into the dark.

Because it was April, and because since the boards it'd just been crossed wires and frustration and heartache. A thousand million times he'd tried to tell her all of his reasons only to get them thrown back in his face, or pretty much stomped on while she moaned about disappointing Jesus or shot another not-even-bothering-to-disguise-it glare in his direction or basically just blamed him for her crappy life.

He'd wanted to marry her, first. Before the paramedic and his lame-ass dancing proposal.  _He'd_  asked her – and sure, it'd been sort of conditional because of the (non-existent) pregnancy, but what she didn't understand was when he said he was in, he meant it. Not because he didn't want to tarnish the Avery name with a kid out of wedlock, or because he didn't want to be the second douchebag in his family who left their child, or because he just wanted to do the right thing. He'd meant  _all the way_  because it was her, and though it wasn't exactly the way he'd pictured things going the fact he could even imagine that stuff with April – a wedding, a house,  _a family_  – well, that was a big freaking deal. With other girls, even Lexie, marriage and kids had been a far-off future; a nice dream, but nothing he'd ever wanted for the present. Having it suddenly land at his feet with April – it'd been terrifying at first, for sure, but mostly? It'd just been awesome. At least, until she was so  _happy_  not to be stuck with him for the rest of her life (and the logical part of his brain knows that's not what it was, not at all, but it still hurt like a bitch and it was just one more heartache from April piled on top of so many others), and he'd ended it.

Even after that, they'd kept falling into each other's orbit, in this weird colleagues-and-maybe-friends-again-but-not-really limbo. It was like she had this special brand of gravity, some kind of pull that kept dragging him back to her side, usually to do dumbass stuff like tell her how he'd never regret them sleeping together or remember the smell of her hair while she cried on his shoulder, and  _Jesus, Avery_ , he'd scolded (reminded) himself every time,  _you're done with this. You're done and there's Steph, so get it together_. So when April had told him she wanted him, that she was willing to end her engagement – a deep, secret part of him knows his non-answer was partly to punish her, for the way she'd pushed aside his feelings over and over again for her own problems. It was also because her future with Matthew – do-gooder, Jesus-loving Matthew – would be easy and simple and probably pretty okay, and he's half-convinced himself it was the adrenaline rush from the explosion and the storm that made April doubt her choices,  _again_. And because he was too damn scared to remember all his reasons why the thought of her marrying someone else made his heart clench in a way he'd never felt before, even with Mark's advice still replaying on an endless loop in his brain.

He hadn't said a word.

And now it's been six weeks and his shoulder's healed and they sidestep around each other with an efficiency that's almost impressive, conversation starting and stopping at surgical procedures and whatever administrative functions he needs to handle, how her boards went the second time around ( _I passed_ , she says too brightly, barely pausing to grab her charts before she's gone again). She's never at Joe's anymore, though he isn't much either now that Alex's practically shacked up with Jo the Intern and he's broken things off with Stephanie.  _That_  had been a fun conversation, and he feels badly that he couldn't offer her more than _it's not you, it's me_. It was true, though. April's declaration had turned his fun-and-easy thing with Steph into something else, and he hadn't wanted to string her along while he was such a mess – ducking into on-call rooms to avoid crossing April's path, secretly rescheduling his board meetings so they almost never operate together, knowing that if they were alone for even two minutes he might break and tell her how much he misses her, that he's got a list of reasons a mile long. That he might beg her not to get married.

But he doesn't, and so they're masters of avoidance. Until one night when she corners him in the lounge with a champagne-coloured envelope, fingertips worrying the edges and her expression pursed into a nervous frown.

"I wasn't sure," she starts, "if this would be awkward – well, it  _is_  awkward – but I thought, um, this was the right thing to do, since you're my best friend and I wouldn't want you not to feel welcome. But, I mean, I understand if, if you don't want to come."

It's an invitation to her engagement party, four weeks away. Her name and Matthew's, in champagne and gold, the background embossed with –

– huh.

Butterflies.

"April," he says, trying to sound gentle and swallowing against the weird lump that's suddenly lodged in his throat, "it's probably not the best idea. And some of the Attendings have to be here if Meredith and the others are going to go, right?"

She starts nodding, almost frantically, a staccato rhythm. Even edged in all her usual nervous tics and twitches, he knows this is a way to mask the hurt, and he wonders not for the first time if there's a limit to how much he and April can wound each other, if they'll ever reach their capacity for causing pain.

"You're right, you're totally right – of course." She grabs the invitation back from him and mashes in into the pocket of her lab coat, still nodding. "It was stupid – I mean, never mind. You're right."

He stops short of touching her to keep her from leaving – there's something in him that can't bear the thought, and their gestures are always so loaded; he thinks of small fists beating against his raw skin, hot tears in the crook of his neck, the weight of her in his arms – but he says  _hey_  in that same low voice and it makes her pause before she reaches the door.

"We're ... okay, right?" He stares at her hard, though he schools his expression into something neutral, just shy of unhappy. "We're friends?"

It's probably selfish, he thinks, to make that request when he knows she wants more, when she's  _told_  him she wants more. But he hates the thought of resigning himself to the weird emptiness that's between them, of wiping their history clean and acting like they're just two people who happen to occupy the same space from time to time.

"Friends," April echoes back, her voice cracking on the word. She smiles. It seems more like a frown pulled taut. "Of course we are, Jackson."

He gets himself scheduled for as many surgeries as he can possibly justify for the next couple weeks and holes himself up in a boardroom with his tower of paperwork for the following two, and once that runs dry he pretends he doesn't overhear April and Callie talk about flower and caterers and makes damn sure he's scheduled for a shift that same night.

* * *

He's been studiously ignoring the date circled in red on the nurses' station calendar since April put it there, but the day of it's all he can think about. The interns are all chattering about it, and the Attendings' lounge is littered with dry-cleaning bags, dresses and suits slung over chairs and tucked behind doors, Alex cracking jokes about whether Matthew's going to bust out another dorky dance routine.

It's his fifth time telling someone that nope, he's on shift that night, and no, he won't be going to the party, and absorbing that sad, isn't-that-a-shame clucking from whoever's on the other end of the conversation that he won't be there for his  _best friend's_  engagement party. With all the gossip that goes around the hospital, he's not sure if they're mocking him or just out of the loop – either way, he's about ready to put his hand through a wall when Meredith intercepts the latest nurse to interrupt his charts and pulls him to the side.

"Jackson, Derek needs to see you in his office."

"About what? Kinda busy here." He's exasperated, gesturing down at the pile of charts in his arms. "And aren't you guys supposed to be leaving for April's, uh, thing?"

"It's important – trust me." Meredith's unyielding, though there's something in her eyes he doesn't quite understand. But he does recognize a battle when he's lost it – being Catherine Avery's son will do that – and flips his current chart closed, making sure to sigh loud enough for her to hear it.

"Trust me, Jackson," she repeats, again with that weird veiled glance he can't interpret. "You need to go to Derek's office."

He shrugs, and goes. It's late enough in the evening that most of the hospital's traffic is confined to the ER, and so he climbs the steps to the catwalk without running into anyone else. When he gets to the top, the lights of Seattle are twinkling in the distance – it's a clear night; no rain – and for a second he stops to admire the view, to just enjoy it and take a breath from the day, the day when his best friend is one step closer to marrying someone else, when he's one step closer to losing the woman he –

"Jackson."

_Man, think it's about time for a vacation or to go home and crack open that 25-year Ardbeg because that sounds a hell of a lot like_ her _._

"Jackson."

At the sound of his name repeated, he finally looks up and across the catwalk. April's standing there, in a dress that's barely a blush of pink and seems to float around her and with her hair swept back, and she's so beautiful that the fist that's been clenching his heart since the explosion grips even tighter.

"April?" he queries, moving towards her but still keeping some distance, like she's an apparition that'll disappear if he gets too close. "What are you doing here? Meredith told me to go to Derek's office –"

"I asked Meredith to send you up here. I just – I got here, and I still didn't even know what I wanted to say, and all I could think about was how I needed to see you."

She's rambling, tripping over her words in a frenetic rush to get them out, not even looking at him. And shaking – her hands are trembling more than he's ever seen, even after the messiest surgery. April's neurotic as hell and she gets rattled, sure, but not like this, and he wonders for the millionth time what's about to blow up in front of him.

"This is where – this is where Mr. Clark shot Derek, and where he, uh, almost shot me, remember?" She gestures around the catwalk, and that he does remember – the barrel of the gun and Charles in a body bag and April with Reed's blood smeared on her hands. "And then I started telling him about me and my family, because I saw on Oprah that you're supposed to do that, right? Tell them about yourself, your life, and they're less likely to, uh, kill you. And I said to him – I asked him not to shoot me, because I wasn't finished yet. Because no one had loved me yet."

That part she'd never told him, and he blinks in surprise even as he feels a rush of pity and fresh grief and tenderness.

"April," he says, quietly, still worried he'll spook her before she gets to the point. "I don't understand."

"I know I said before that, that I wanted you. After the explosion –" She stops for a second, her eyes falling closed and mouth twisting, like the memory's still right there in front of her. "I hate that takes all the horrible things – it took a freaking bus exploding to finally realize what you mean to me. And I'm sorry, in the endless list of things I'm sorry for, that I made it seem like I needed you to stop me from getting married. It wasn't that, it just – I was so  _scared_ , and I wanted so badly for you to want me too, and I thought if you didn't then Matthew might be the only other one who'd ever think I was worth something. And I'm so sorry for the way I pushed you aside, if I acted like I didn't care about your feelings – I was just so wrapped up in my own guilt and being angry at myself, I didn't even think. But it's not an excuse, and I'm sorry for how much I've hurt you."

Her ring, he suddenly notices – she's not wearing her engagement ring. It's all slowly processing, though he still won't quite let himself piece it together. "April, what about your party –?"

"I broke things off with Matthew. Tonight. I was getting ready and my mom and sisters were with me ... they were taking all these pictures and they were just so excited, and they kept saying how wonderful Matthew is and how happy he's going to make me – and he is. Matthew is wonderful, and such a good person and he loves Jesus and I know he seems like the perfect guy for me. But they kept saying it and every time they did I just kept thinking about – about you. And how  _you_  make me feel."

April's face softens at that and she finally seems to catch her breath, losing some of the frantic energy as she steps towards him. Calmer, even. Surer.

"Because when we were together, Jackson, it didn't  _feel_  wrong – it felt right, good. And for a long time I was so caught up in feeling guilty about breaking my promise to Jesus that I never thought about why there wasn't a single part of me that felt  _bad_  when we were together. In my heart, it never felt wrong –  _you_  never felt wrong – and I was just too scared to figure out why, and it was easier to ... just, just blame you and hate myself. Because that's how I speak to Him, in my heart, and if he wasn't telling me that I was doing something bad then I'd have to face the truth."

"And the truth is ... it's you, Jackson." She says it so sweetly; the emotion of it ragged in her voice, hands at her sides and open towards him like she has nothing left to hide, like she has everything to offer. "It's always been you. I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out, but I want you. Just you; no one else. You're – you are the best man I know. You're so strong and so kind, and brilliant and sweet and wonderful and you deal with my crazy, and the way I feel when I'm with you – it isn't like anything else in the world. I am so,  _so_  in love with you, and I know you probably don't feel the same way, and if you don't, fine, but I couldn't – I just couldn't stand the thought of  _not_  telling you, and pretending like it's not you when it is."

He feels like his heart's halfway between dropping into his shoes and bursting through his chest, almost dizzy from the shock of adrenaline that's coursing through his veins. He's barely able to sort through all her words, that she  _loves_  him, and then she swallows hard, takes another step and keeps going.

"But if – if I'm wrong, and you do want me too, then - then marry me."

That knocks him out of his stupor.

" _What?_ "

"I know it's crazy – I know  _I'm_  crazy – but I don't want anyone else." April's shaking her head, teeth worrying her bottom lip, like she knows exactly how nuts it sounds. "I'm not going want anyone else. And I don't care if it takes weeks or months or years before you're ready to get married – I'll wait. I'll wait forever if that's what it takes. I'll wait a lifetime for you. Because I'm ready and I'm never going to want anyone else."

"You're asking me to marry you," he parrots back, not believing the words even as he forces them out, still too shocked to do anything but repeat her question, to map all the emotion spilling across her face. The love and the fear and the apprehension.

The  _hope_.

It hits him then, the enormity of it – she is giving him everything, and not asking for anything he doesn't want to give back in return. This is her heart, offered up for him to do whatever he will. For months, he's wanted this - stripped away from the old pain and guilt and anger and excuses, all the reasons they built up to push themselves apart, to keep what they felt safe and buried and hidden away. Just him and her;  _me and you_.

There are tears in April's eyes, an almost-laugh caught in her words when she speaks, half-exasperated and partly relieved and resigned to it. "Not today, and not tomorrow, and maybe not until we're old and wrinkly – but yeah, Jackson, I wanna marry you."

He takes another measured step towards her.

"You love me, and you want to marry me."

They've bridged most of the distance across the catwalk but she's still an arm's length away, her frustration growing clear.

"Yes, Jackson!" April's voice rises until she's practically shouting, her hands raised in aggravation, nerves twisting into impatience. "I want the butterflies and the mints and the big yard and the kids and everything, and I want it with you, and I don't know how many more freaking times you're going to make me say it –"

She doesn't have to again because that's when he grabs her and kisses her, one hand coming up to frame her face and the other pressing so tightly against the small of her back he thinks he must be leaving her breathless, but then her arms twine around his neck with just as much fierceness – and this is what he always wanted from her, he realizes as she kisses him back.

He wants everything.

Dimly, he's aware of cheering from below – Meredith must have tipped everyone off, because they've suddenly appeared on the floor below, clapping and hollering while Alex catcalls – and the distraction gives April a moment to pull back from their kiss, still close enough he can feel her breath, warm against his cheek.

"So what's your answer?" she murmurs. He can still hear the trepidation in her voice, the clear plea for the truth, once and for all. "I can't – I need to you say something. Please say something."

"How about yes," he says, grinning wide, feeling the vice around his heart finally loosen and ebb away. "Or, it's about damn time. Or, I love you too. Any of those work for you?"

April laughs, matching his grin, peering over his shoulder at the crowd below and then rocking back into his arms, unwilling to let go.

"Yes," she breathes and kisses him again, and it's a long time before either of them say anything more at all.


End file.
